


Dance with Me

by Whedonista93



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bodyguard Sandor Clegane, Creepy Petyr Baelish, F/M, Motorcycles, Past Abuse, Protective Sandor Clegane, Sandor Clegane Swears, Sandor's language is its own warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-07
Updated: 2020-06-07
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:13:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24585892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whedonista93/pseuds/Whedonista93
Summary: Baelish makes a disapproving tutting. “Really, sweetling, dancing with the hired help. What would your mother say?”
Relationships: Sandor Clegane/Sansa Stark
Comments: 30
Kudos: 229





	Dance with Me

Sansa hears the orchestra strike up something bound to be slow and sweet and groans, surreptitiously casting her gaze around under her lashes. Sure enough, Baelish is striding across the room toward her, determination in his eyes. She curses and downs the rest of her drink, turning and moving the opposite direction. She almost sags in relief when she sees a familiar set of broad shoulders mere steps away at the edge of the room.

She steps up behind him, one of the few who would dare, and slips a hand into his. He looks down at her, confusion pulling at his scars. Sansa smiles back.

“Dance with me?” She doesn’t bother trying to keep the desperation out of her voice.

Her bodyguard frowns back. “Little Bird-”

“Please,” she cuts him off. “Sandor, I’ll beg. I’ve turned Baelish down three times tonight already and I’m all out of good reasons to tell him no again.”

“‘No’ is reason enough, Little Bird.”

She intentionally widens her eyes and brings her free hand up to his arm, pressing against his side.

Sandor groans. “People will see.”

She shakes her head. “I don’t care, Sandor. I’ve never cared. Please.”

“Sansa,” Baelish’s voice comes from behind them.

Sansa tenses, but doesn’t look away from Sandor.

Sandor huffs out a breath, then inclines his chin, ever so slightly.

Sansa beams at him before turning around, dragging Sandor with her. “Mr. Baelish.”

Baelish grimaces. “How many times do I have to ask you to call me Petyr, sweetling?”

Sansa’s grip on Sandor’s hand and she shrugs lightly. “Can I help you with something?”

“The third time was not the charm,” Bealish smiles charmingly, “so I thought I might risk rejection a fourth time. Might I have this dance?”

“Guess you’ll have to live with the disappointment, Littlefinger,” Sandor interjects. “The lady’s already promised this dance.”

Baelish makes a disapproving tutting. “Really, sweetling, dancing with the hired help. What would your mother say?”

Sansa smiles sweetly. “Mother is actually rather fond of Sandor.” She steps forward, gently tugging Sandor with her. “If you’ll excuse us.”

_ “I can take you with me. Take you to Winterfell,” the Hound offers. “I’ll keep you safe. Do you want to go home?” _

_ “You’re drunk,” Sansa accuses. _

_ “Aye, a bit. Those Lannister cunts’ll be arguing with Baratheon over the Blackwater Bay contracts all bloody night. We leave now, they won’t notice until tomorrow.” _

_ Sansa lets out a shaky breath. “I’m driving.” _

_ He shrugs. “Suit yourself. Grab whatever you need. Pack light." _

_ Sansa swaps the ugly dress Cersei had sent for her this morning out for her sturdiest jeans, still weak material, and a plain yellow blouse before digging out her favorite boots, the ones she's kept hidden for fear of them being thrown away like the rest of her property, and shoving her feet into them. She braids her hair back hastily then nods to the Hound. _

_ He raises his good brow. "Not taking anything with you?" _

_ "They burned all my things," Sansa reminds him bitterly. _

_ He blinks. "Right." _

_ They tread the halls carefully, quietly, until they reach the garage. Sandor hands her a helmet before dangling his motorcycle keys in front of her. "Still want to drive?" _

_ He's sorely mistaken if he expects her to balk. She’s been riding with her brothers since they were tall enough to reach the clutch. She snatches the helmet and the keys. He simply grins and kicks the stand up so he can push the bike up the long drive silently. He gives her a challenging look when they reach the road. Sansa straightens her shoulders, shoves her helmet on her head and swings a leg over the seat, shooting a challenging look back. He slides into the seat behind her without a word, snapping the visor down on his own helmet before slinging an arm around her waist. She fires the bike up and guides it out into the road, pointed North. They make it less than 50 miles when he shouts at her to pull over. _

_ "What?" She demands as she kills the engine and he dismounts. _

_ He shrugs off his old leather jacket and holds it out to her. "You're shivering, Little Bird." _

_ She turns her gaze to her feet. "They never gave me a jacket." _

_ He lets out a stream of curses. "Gods, I should've gotten you out of there sooner. We need to get back on the road. Take the jacket." _

_ "What about you?" _

_ "I'll be fine, Little Bird." _

_ They ride through the night, finally stopping at a roadside diner around daybreak. _

_ Sansa hesitates over the menu. _

_ Sandor catches it when she bites her lip. "Get whatever you want." _

_ "I don't have any money," she whispers. _

_ "Sansa." _

_ Her head jerks up. "I think that's the first time you've ever used my name." _

_ "Get something to eat. Please." _

_ Sansa is reluctant, but hesitantly orders pancakes, eggs, bacon, and coffee when the waitress asks. She startles when the waitress follows her into the hall when she goes to use the restroom before they leave. _

_ “Are you okay, honey?” The woman asks seriously. _

_ Sansa’s sure her confusion shows on her face. _

_ The waitress smiles a bit sadly. “The big man with the scars… he’s not… you’re not…” _

_ Realization dawns on Sansa and she gasps, adamantly shaking her head. “Oh, no! He would never hurt me.” _

_ “Little Bird?” Sandor’s voice sounds at the end of the hall. _

_ Sansa throws him a reassuring smile over her shoulder before turning back to the waitress and grasping the woman’s hand. “He protects me from those who would. Thank you, though.” _

_ Sandor gently tucks his leather coat around her shoulders again when she reaches him, frowning at the waitress suspiciously. “Alright?” _

_ Sansa nods. “She just wanted to make sure I was okay.” _

_ Sandor’s jaw tightens and Sansa can’t help but reach up and run her thumb along it lightly. “It’s alright, Sandor. Let’s go. Please?” _

_ He nods jerkily, and Sansa doesn’t protest when he bundles her onto the back of the bike. They ride several more hours, steadily North before the bike starts zagging slightly. Sansa squeezes around his waist lightly and jerks her head toward the side of the road. Sandor pulls over and lifts his visor, killing the engine. _

_ Sansa flips the visor up on her own helmet. “We’re nearly to Riverrun aren’t we?” _

_ “Aye,” Sandor nods. _

_ “We should stop and rest. It’s big enough we won’t be noticed.” _

_ He hesitates only briefly before agreeing. _

_ They stop at some big chain box store on the edge of the city and stock up on a few essentials - underwear and socks, toiletries, a couple changes of spare clothes and a large backpack to stuff it all in - before pulling into a nondescript hotel on the other side of the city. Sandor bustles her into their room and tells her he’s going out for supper.  _

_ Sansa is making a beeline for the shower before the door is even fully closed behind him. She takes an indulgently long shower, silently thanking the gods for the seemingly endless supply of hot water in hotels before emerging and toweling off. She rummages through their newly acquired goods and frowns when she realizes she hadn’t thought to get sleepwear - she’d been too frazzled about Sandor spending money on her in the first place.  _

_ After staring at the bags for an inordinate amount of time, she shrugs, steps into a pair of plain cotton panties from her new pack - the innocent little flowers on them make her smile - and steals one of Sandor’s new t-shirts before braiding her hair loosely over her shoulder. Needing to feel useful, she sets about organizing their things in a manner that will make them fit in the backpack. She’s just finished arranging toiletries in the front pocket when Sandor walks through the door with a greasy paper bag. _

_ Sandor’s eyes go wide. _

_ Sansa blushes and fidgets with her braid. “I didn’t get anything to sleep in,” she whispers nervously. _

_ Sandor takes two long steps and stops in front of her, gently lifting her chin so she meets his gaze. “I don’t want you to be scared of me, Little Bird.” _

_ Sansa blinks up at him, trying to will away tears. “You won’t hurt me.” _

_ Sandor shakes his head. “I won’t hurt you,” he reassures. Something unreadable crosses his face before he steps back. “Gonna shower.” _

_ Sansa wakes up screaming, and doesn’t stop until Sandor has her wrapped securely in his arms, whispering soothing nonsense in her ear. She latches onto him when he tries to move back to his own bed. “Stay, please. I… I know he can’t get me, when I can feel you next to me.” _

_ He doesn’t reply, but he does settle down next to her, leaving his arms wrapped loosely around her. _

_ They’re on the road before dawn, and take turns guiding Sandor’s bike through light and dark until they’re both swaying with exhaustion. After the first hotel, they give up the pretense of a room with two beds. They stop at nondescript diners off country highways. _

_ Somewhere between Moat Cailin and Castle Cerwyn, Sansa has a there and gone again thought that she should call home, let them know she’s coming, but the fog of her brain never quite finishes the thought with any intent. It feels simultaneously like no time at all and forever when she sees the walls of her family’s Winterfell estate rising ahead of them. She’s grateful Sandor is driving, because she fears she may have swerved off the road at the sight. He stops at the crest of the hill, lets her drink it in. _

_ She glances down at the dirty jeans tucked into her old boots, and Sandor’s rumpled tee shirt under her plaid flannel and his beaten leather jacket and almost wishes she were more presentable. _

_ “You look fine, Little Bird,” Sandor’s voice rumbles as if he could read her mind. “They’ll just be happy you’re home.” _

_ “Home,” her voice cracks and her eyes water at the notion. _

_ Sandor squeezes her hands gently, where they’re clasped around his middle, and silently starts back on the road. _

_ Her hands shake when she enters her gate code. Her whole body is trembling against Sandor’s back as the bike rumbles up the long drive. By the time they reach the courtyard of the old castle that is her family home, her whole family is standing outside the door, curious and wary. Before the bike is even fully halted, Sansa is stumbling off the back, dropping their backpack from her weary shoulders and all but throwing her helmet aside. She barely registers the shock and relief on her family’s faces before she’s falling into her mother’s arms, sobbing for all she’s worth. _

_ If not for the notion that Sansa would never forgive him - and the fact that he’s fairly certain none of the bloody Starks would open the damn gate for him - Sandor would have throttled his bike right back down the drive as soon as she stumbled into her mother’s arms. Instead, he kills the engine and dismounts, dropping the kickstand and stretching out his aching back. They’ve ridden hard and long for days on end, and they’re both sure to be feeling it for days to come. He’s so focused on Sansa that he doesn’t notice Eddard Stark approaching him until the man is within arm’s reach. _

_ Stark clears his throat. _

_ Years of muscle memory and training are all that keep Sandor from leaping out of his skin. He nearly scowls at the man, then remembers he’s still wearing his helmet. He jerks it off impatiently with one hand and uses the other to push his hair back out of his face. _

_ Eddard’s face betrays his shock. “Clegane.” _

_ “Stark,” Sandor grunts back. _

_ Eddard has the decency to look a bit ashamed. “Sorry. I didn’t mean… I didn’t expect…” The man trails off helplessly. _

_ Sandor rolls his eyes. “Didn’t expect a mean old fucker like me to be the one to bring her back.” _

_ “In a manner of speaking,” Eddard agrees with a grimace. _

_ “Wasn’t right,” Sandor says so quietly he barely hears himself, “the way they kept her. The way that little shit treated her. I couldn’t…” _

_ “I understand,” Eddard tells him, just as quietly. “I can’t… I will never be able to thank you enough for this. If there is anything I can offer-” _

_ “I didn’t help her for your fucking money, Stark,” Sandor snarls. _

_ Eddard holds his hands up. “I didn’t mean-” _

_ Sandor gives him a Look. _

_ Eddard returns a self-deprecating smile. “Well, maybe I did. At least stay and rest, refresh.” _

_ Sandor glances at Sansa, still shaking in her mother’s arms, and offers a jerky nod. _

_ Eddard nods back then turns to the task of herding his family, and Sandor, inside.  _

_ Before Sandor can quite process what’s happening, he’s got a cup of coffee in his hands and he’s seated in a massive family room in front of a blazing fire. Well, he’s in the same room as the fire, seated as far away from it as he can be without being bloody rude. Sansa is curled up between Robb and Jon on a huge leather couch with Arya tucked against the couch near her feet, Rickon sprawled across the back of the couch, and Bran in an adjacent chair, eyes intent on her. Catelyn and Eddard are seated on the hearth, unable to tear their gazes from their children. Everyone is listening intently as Sansa haltingly stumbles through the tale of her abuses at the hands of the Lannisters and Sandor’s rescue.  _

_ Sandor might feel like an outsider if he could focus on any of it for more than a moment instead of keeping his attention on Sansa. Even he hadn’t known the extent of the atrocities his Little Bird had suffered. He feels his gut churn and swears to the gods he’ll spend the rest of his days atoning for not getting her out of there sooner. There also might be a promise somewhere in his silent prayers that Meryn Trant is going to die a slow, painful death if he ever lays eyes on the man again. _

_ It’s near dawn when Catelyn announces that everyone should get some rest. She turns and offers a guest room to Sandor. Sansa makes a pained sound and stumbles off the couch, eyes wide with fear. _

_ Her family stares at her, momentarily shocked then taking turns trying to reach out and comfort her. Sansa screams. It goes silent for a beat, then everyone returns to trying to sooth Sansa. Her breathing is racing toward hyperventilation with increasing speed. Sandor curses himself for not recognizing the panic attack sooner, and doesn’t even think to hesitate in bodily pushing through the Starks to get to Sansa. “Give her room to fucking breathe.” _

_ He’ll go to his grave swearing utter shock is the only reason one of the most stubborn families in history immediately obeys the snarled command as he scoops Sansa straight into his arms and drops onto the couch, cradling her in lap against his chest, brushing one hand gently over her tangled braid and muttering soothing nonsense in her ear until her breathing slows. It’s become a habit over the last couple weeks, with the frequency her nightmares tear her from sleep. He’s wilfully ignorant of the Stark family staring at him in utter astonishment. _

_ Eventually, Sansa blinks up at him, clearly dazed. “Sandor?” _

_ He squeezes her hip where the hand not on her hair rests. “I’m here, Little Bird.” _

_ She fists his shirt tighter in her hands where she’d unconsciously gripped at him when he’d picked her up. “Don’t go.” _

_ He closes his eyes and presses a kiss to her temple. “I’m not going anywhere without you, sweetheart.” _

_ She slumps against him, utterly boneless, and he realizes she’s passed out. _

_ He huffs out a breath, renewing his vows to ruin the entire fucking Lannister family, no matter what it takes, before raising his eyes back to her family. “She has panic attacks,” he explains quietly, “and nightmares.” _

_ Catelyn recovers first. “I see.” She cocks her head. “They’re worse when you’re not there.” _

_ Sandor closes his eyes, remembering the one time he’d left their hotel room when she was sleeping, then looks up and nods. “On the road here… couldn’t sleep one night. Went for a run. She woke up and I was gone. Screamed herself hoarse. Hotel nearly called the cops. Took three hours for her to stop fucking shaking.” _

_ Catelyn considers for a brief moment, then nods decisively. “Right then. Arya, show Sandor to Sansa’s room. Robb, fetch their backpack, would you?” _

To the public eye, Sandor was Sansa’s bodyguard, hired on in the midst of the very public trial against the Lannister family. One of many, after the second blatant assasination attempt, but the only one she was  _ never _ seen without. Even at,  _ especially _ at, high profile events like the Tyrell’s annual gala.

“People will talk, Little Bird,” Sandor whispers, even as he pulls her more tightly against him on the dance floor.

“Let them,” Sansa responds.

Sandor looks down at her. “Sansa-”

She raises a hand to cup his scarred cheek. “I. Don’t. Care.”

He closes his eyes. “You could have anyone. Baelish is rich, successful. Hardyng is rich, handsome. Tyrell seems a bit flighty, but you like pretty things.”

Sansa pinches his back where her hand is wrapped around his waist.

He opens his eyes to scowl at her.

She smiles back unrepentantly. “Sandor, I wouldn’t even be here if it weren’t for you.”

He opens his mouth.

Sansa moves her hand from his cheek to his lips, effectively silencing him. “You’ve been my anchor in the storm since the day I met you. I’m rich enough and pretty enough for the both of us.”

“Modest, too,” he scoffs.

She sticks her tongue out at him. “I don’t care who knows I love you.”

“I’m just an old dog, Little Bird.”

“Big, scary hound,” she mocks. “I like dogs.”

“Sansa-”

“If you keep arguing, I’m going to decide you don’t like me anymore and go drag that Payne boy into some dark corner. I hear he can do amazing things with his tongue,” Sansa snarks and takes a step away.

Sandor pulls her bodily back into him, so they’re plastered front to front. “Don’t you fucking dare.”

Sansa grins and raises an eyebrow. “Why shouldn’t I?”

Sandor can’t form a good answer with words, so he leans in and kisses her, in a manner not entirely appropriate for a public venue, right there in the middle of the dancefloor.

“Wooh!” Margery Tyrell whistles and catcalls. “Renly, you owe me twenty bucks!”

Sandor groans and buries his face in Sansa’s hair.

Sansa merely laughs.

  
  



End file.
